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Saturday, 20 August 2011

Let Me Denude Creation


The illusion of control - control is futile.

While artists delineate limits.

A watcher rides the wild.

Surrounded by pictures, I walk right into them.

Road kill.

The peaceful head

Unflinchingly rests

To the side of a torn body,

Bloodied breast.

The car speeds on

Oblivious as the murderway

Claims another badge,

To stud its tarmac skin.

Arterial roads which span,


The globe,

A tennis ball tossed

In the Aether.

Infected by life,

That disease so proud

Of what little it can


A pin-prick

At the cold eternity

Of nullity.

The multiverse is there

Within a globule of her sweat

And the musical spheres

Are echoed in her breast.

And what fierce wand,

To lash them?

Spiteful time punishes the ripe peach of her face.

A face that helmed Poseidon's awe,



No nobler profile has

Prowed the visored waves.

The sea is not heaven.

Paradise pit,

A dustbowl

For grimy angels,

Unwashed and stinking.

Bound she feet


Toes in the


Of your hand


sweat hot.

Let me denude Creation
So that her rains might fall
And drench us all
In their golden liquidity.

Clouds and rain,

Streaming hair like a comet tail.

Servant girl's shoe.

Busking in rags with rings on her charcoaled toes.

A face yet golden, emerald eyes.

God physique.


She rides

On a steaming black horse,

Shod in silver shoes.

She skin damp

She hair



Amongst the fallen petals

Of wine-pressed flowers.

Her tight clad cheeks were in my mind.

Her feet were helpless,


Flaccid digits.

Language is constraint. there is no purely 'automatic' writing ... all writing ... hesitates ...

This why writing is erotic.

Artists have a penchant for the forbidden.

Age outrages the form human

Disgraces the race

And is good for only those

Skeletal remains

That danse macabre

In etchings and flames

Enemies of water, blood,

Enemies of colour,

Of brains and sinews

And phlegm.

The stark nose,

pleated mouth,

Chin and open throat,

Caramel lips, tongue, lining,


Poets want to lose control.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

The Hemlock of Love

Skin girl
Shorn, her arms twine
Inked in by time, a scribe for ever
Tracing lines and tattoos
And taboos that will
Surely die with her.
Carve runes on your bones,
If immortality you would own.

I live only by glances,
Like a thirsty man,
Gasping at a faltering well,
Afeared of drinking
Deep to the lees of her
Fathomless eyes.

Only the weak smile, laugh, joke and grin.
Might is stern, serious, deep and dour.
Of woman it makes a masque chagrined,
And raises infertility to a power,
Of which woman is the most evil

Raven Woman
There is a forested darkness about you,
A shifting shroud, a sensuous cloud of
Crow eyes, perched on the plateaux of your cheek.
Your body reeks of natural evil. Of wicked Nature unbound.
And I inhale the feathered sod of your ground.

Golden girls, you worship the sun,
In its blonde, burnished glow,
And lapis lazuli eye.
But I need to know the swart
Regions of brown, and black night.
Those places underground,
Whole, and unfound by light.

Without alcohol
Life would be a

Nothing so repels as the smell of death.
The spirit fled from the Nine Gates,
As Hel weaves her
Decay into
Quickly rotting flesh.
Death makes a stranger of us all.

Reject the realm of the senses,
And plummet into the senselessness of death.
The void is oblivion, nothingness and rest.

Life is just an addiction to the senses.

Then taste death ...
When the prospect of death
Is sweeter than life,
Then taste death.

Opening a vein ...
As the life's blood flows,
Then is the future spent.
One's release diademed by a delirium
Of death throes.

At the Seven Gates of Death,
I sniffed death's breath.
I plumbed death's well,
Tasted death's poison,
Heard my own death's knell
And viewed death's horizon.

Like the Seven Gates of a
Woman's face,
Which seep & leak
And taste her

Love lorn and lost,
Thrown down and tossed
On the decaying
Ground of Being.

The Hemlock of Love

Opportunities recede, Death drawing ever near,
Time to drink the Hemlock of Love

En Garde
Who Guards the Guardians?
The Guarded.

The atrophy of a trophy wife

Pandora's Box

All the Lies in the World derive from Woman.
Man deals in Truth - and Trouble and Strife.

Language of the Eyes

The Language of the Eyes

My mistress will not talk to me nor I to her. Instead my eyes

And lashes will do the speech and signal of my desire and spies.

My mistress will allow me only the briefest snatch of her eyes

Looking right through me, as if I am not there, heedless to my sighs.

Her cheeks alone flush in recognition, horror and surprise.

Lovely one, I will not lower my gaze nor jilt your chastise.

I have vowed to conquer you and intend to take you as my prize.

And your lips will melt one day like a gag to stifle your cries.

For this triste was meant to be, before one or both of us dies.

Woman Danger

Woman is the instigator of all beauty and cruelty. In her prism alone

Is wisdom entrapped and enslaved. Her lines are the lineaments of chrome.

She had the purest lines I had ever seen,

Arching brows and brown eyes obscene.

Her hair fringed a forehead so clean,

Her limbs spoke of forests unseen -

Her hands enveined not an ounce of flesh excess

Her darkness quivered to excite my sex

This woman played her profile like a lutenist.

Her cheekbones scavenged absolutist.

What defence had I against one so brutish?

Equipped with eye and body,

She was a mystery.

I have been thwarted by woman kind

Oh such a splendid detour!

I shall be back on course soon.

I am a beast of testosterone,

A bearded monster of a cocksure

Uncut throne.



Baconesque, open-mouthed-mute shout:

"It is you! Not me - you!"

If it wasn't for your beauty

This wouldn't've come about!

Blame the gods for your ravishment,

I was only doing m'duty.

As a man with a propensity

And yen for the classic

In flesh and mind, exotic,

And all that is ultimately

Tragic and erotic,

I could not resist your allure,

I could not resist your charm,

And I would fight against any cure,

And would rather feel harm,

For this lonely death is finer

And more exciting than

Any safe and humdrum old-timer.

Of youth I am a fan

Not of the grey, hoary and wan,

But of the fresh, no finer.

You got me the melancholy

And you shall get me cured,

You begat the evil folly

For which I'm injured.

Do not blast at my common sense,

Not at my empathy,

For intensity is my defense,

And love is my therapy.

I await my trial and charges

False, lies and uptrumped.

I will not change my style

Nor will I grovel and fall,

Slumped, abject and debased the while.

Reasoned Excess

The Kiss

"Men have died for less!"

My attacker cried as he sought to divest

My teeth from my jaw.

But I was equal to his tough caress,

Fancying right and law

And the flight and my arena and score.

O princess of the brunettes stabilise your borders

And ensure that your brown eyes and hair

Will lure and tempt more and more

Warriors to your prize. I care nothing for your

Subtefuge, your sidesteps nor your lies;

I value only the raven of your eyes,

And how the dimple of your cheek

Doth arise, and your lips in overlapped surmise ...

All this is enough for me in unchained mirth.

I am English, and yearn for the pre-Aryan Celtic brand

Of pure Mediterranean sand, when goddesses such

As yourself did rule man and beast. I am your

Crown and scepter, your halo and wand,

My root doth stand in rapt amazement at your white arms.

Distress me not - we are legion at your command -

A legion of men wasted in reprimand.

Heavy metal soldiers! - your eyes! - your eyes! -

Enfringred and emboldened by the

funking criterion of the darkest skies.

DJ turn it up !

Her arms were

White, her fringe likewise an

Expanse of very delicatesse.

The shock of her brunette pelme came as a

Hammer blow, for it threatened to rape and

Distress around the eyes as they foraged for

Realms anew.

The shine of a blackened hair, gleamed and transfixed.

Has a man to be crucified by this ruse?

Has a man to be used by the black flag above the eyes

Of dark destoying?

Was a man to be

Stripped down to this nudity and be

Shamed by the

Crudity of a woman with a straight cut?


These angels of Hell, without remorse,

Grace or smell, are a legion of corpses!

What can I do? My senses corrupt and yet the croruptors -

These angels - doth defile and compile a catalogue of crimes anew!

The relentless jukebox is an eternal pardon of dance music


She burdened lust and

Bust and crust:

Swagging on the deep.


Reasoned excess

Energy diminshes and

Death ensues.

Energy increases and

Life intensifies like fire,

And consumes

All in its path.

The runes are a constant path - no need to throw them if you are aware.

Death is inevitable or else it is a trick.

As perception grows so life and death become redundant conceptions and energy is all.

Blake was right, energy is eternal delight.

British decadence has energy, while French decadence is languid.

Youth symbolises energy.

Fascism is energy in politics.

Energy is excessive: the energetic type always exceeds: he is the outlaw, the rebel.

The energetic man is always banned, black-listed.

So why does the establishment at all times ban energy?

Clearly the establsihment wants to preserve the staus quo.

This means that they are dedicated to truncating


The energy of the pre-pubescent - yes, the energy of Youth!

The child has as much energy as the Lion!

There are too many Camels - not enough Lions and not nearly enough Chiles!

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Mystery Woman

Mystery woman of the East,

What beast could resist your charm-ed eye,

Nightside tresses and flowing.

Jawline sublime - untroubled skin

And regal cheekbones on high?

They undercrown those seeing orbs

By which you rule and terrify with

My abject heart so weak and western.

Black crow I cannot rebuke the trouble you sow

Erotic. despotic, amid the flow

Of tyrannical, fascistic glow and show;

I am transported by this dunmost brune,

With the darkest of roots and the whitest of suits;

Of lip-licking subtefuge and cunning,

Linguistic wordplay beneath arches of piss-

Soaked walls, emblazoned with obscenities.

What curious strains of verisimilitude

Could warp the weft of her extremities?

She sashayed across the place in complete animus grace,

With bare arms, dimpled charms and Amazon face.

Forget the blonde, I can only respond

To the ochre eyed kind, the darkness of the race.

Exterminate common squalor!

Flush the stinking hordes into the gutter,

Water cannon wipe-out these worms!

Only the gods perspire perfume

Shit gold and piss bourbon.

It is this that we worship

In music and blood.

Olympus has been run derelict

And the maggots have been allowed

To flourish in monotheist neglect.

Stone goddess of the latrines,

Urania of the urinals.

Green slime climbs

Imperceptibly your concrete pedestals

While rancor entwines

The smashed nostrils of your

Flawed statuette.

Not bronze but brick and mortar

Builds your your temple

And so motalises you

Iin the eys of your disenchanted


In this zone of Aphrodite

This rusted chain of Chastity

This fleshless enormity of

Empathies lack. Where is the

Inveterate sweat of mammalian

Excess? Oozing armpit hair

And septum glistening?

Bruis-ed lips and hooded eyes

Which flash in bashful surprise.

A pudenda most moist in

Olafactory heat.